


Murder at the Garden Museum - a Benedict Cumberbatch Mystery

by BloggingtheBatch (Cumberwriter)



Series: The Benedict Cumberbatch Mysteries [2]
Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-07 08:23:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3168095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cumberwriter/pseuds/BloggingtheBatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine you're locked in a closet with Benedict Cumberbatch and suddenly - the lights go out.  You'd think it would be heavenly, but instead, it's just murder!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> More chapters will appear as I get them done. Earlier chapters might still undergo some revision. Mostly writer clean-up, not changes to essential story elements. Thanks for your patience, I hope to have it done by March 1st.
> 
> ETA: Well, it's May 1st and as we can see, I don't have this done. Sorry. Life happened. But I'm on it! I hope by June 1, barring any more intrusions from reality.

 

 _A clone_ , Jordan Banks thought as she read the email alert. _That's what I need. It can go to meetings, look pleasant, say nothing and no one would be able to tell it wasn't me._

For the most part, Jordan loved her job at Mercy Fund, International's central London office. MFI sent children life-saving goods: food, clothing, medicine.  It was a simple concept: give Mercy Fund money, save a child's life. So. Very. Simple.

So Jordan never understood why it took more to pry money out of people than saying: "Children are starving to death in their parents arms, give us some money to feed them." She thought saying that should be enough to get every single person to give her something. But it wasn't. And so, the development section of a non-profit like hers, the section that raised money, was always looking for ways to simply get people who have, to save those who have not.

Which resulted in a lot of meetings, most of which seemed complete wastes of time, to Jordan.  Though she did think they propped up the tea and coffee industries quite nicely. So when the email alert announced an "emergency development staff meeting" to commence in twenty minutes, the American database manager wished for a clone.  She was elbow-deep in a software update and hated the idea of shutting it down half-done.

**~~~~~**

Jordan slipped quietly into the meeting, last to arrive as usual. She was surprised to find her boss, Director of Development Caitlyn Frost-Burroughs, not at the head of the conference table. Instead, the CEO of MFI, John Black (a "terribly British" sort of Brit who Jordan was certain must be hiding an impressive list of hyphenated names between his prosaic first and last) at the front giving a power point presentation. A huge image of a storm-ravaged village covered the wall behind him. As he spoke, the image was replaced by others, each more devastating than the last. Bodies strewn about like discarded toys. Animals and people half-buried in mud and debris. And so, so many slight and tangled bodies of children.

"... these storms typically move west into the Atlantic," Black was saying, "But a freak high pressure system forced  this one back into the coast of Africa and, along with it, a storm surge - well - a tsumani, really - that pushed a twenty-foot high wall of water almost a full mile inland." He stopped and mercifully shut down the images. "There was almost no warning. The death toll will easily go over one-thousand. And," he looked directly at Caitlyn, "We need a huge influx of cash. Now."

Caitlyn nodded. "We'll get it. You know what happens, as soon as the story is out there, donations pour in." While she was speaking, Jordan was already making notes of which lists to pull for personal contact. The "go-to" donors who could always be counted on. She glanced up to find John Black shaking his head.

"No.  _We need ten million pounds in forty-eight hours,_ "  he announced. A new image appeared on the wall, a map of the west African coast, with two countries highlighted in blue: Nabundi, hardest hit by the tsunami and, just inland, the landlocked Gonda.

"Oh, _crap_ ," Jordan said. Everyone turned to stare at her. She felt the blood rise in her face, realizing she had spoken aloud.

But the CEO seemed to appreciate that she, at least, saw the problem. "Well put, Jordan. Oh crap, indeed."

And Jordan did see it. Nabundi/Gonda were mortal enemies, going back to the 18th century when Nabundan raiders kidnapped Gondalese tribesman and sold them to British slave ships. In modern times, civil wars had torn Nabundi apart and it's present regime trusted no outside agencies. The only charity they allowed to operate in the country was Mercy Fund.

But it was little better in Gonda. Suspecting that huge international charities like the Red Cross and UNICEF were somehow in league with the CIA or MI6, Gonda only allowed Catholic Charities and Mercy Fund inside their borders.

In three days' time, Mercy Fund was set to transfer ten million pounds into Gonda as the result of a campaign to build what would be the only modern medical facility in the country. If that money didn't appear as scheduled, all ties with Mercy Fund would be destroyed. Many would suffer as the flow of food and medicines was cut off.

But the only charity that could get money into the tsunasmi-ravaged Nabundi was also, Mercy Fund. 

"So, " Black was saying, "UNICEF, Red Cross, several others will be funneling their donations to us. But you all know not one mouthful of food, not one blanket or dose of medicine will get to Nabundi until all the funds are processed. Which takes how long, Jordan?"

She shook her head. "Best case scenario,  six to eight days before any of that money begins to reach them. Two weeks before we have the bulk of it."

"Right now," Black continued, "We have ten million ready to transfer electronically to our people in Nabundi. Today.  Money earmarked for Gonda's new hospital.  If Gonda doesn't get that money, well, not only will we lose the country, there may be war between the two if they find out we gave it to Nabundi. The situation is beyond delicate and the lives of millions, quite literally, may be on the line."

"Just contacting our major donors won't do it. We need an event, a very significant event. And that takes time." Caitlyn looked at Pippa Collins, the events coordinator whose hair went beyond "ginger" all the way to "holy cow your hair's on fire!"

"I might be able to get the Garden Museum, actually," she said. "They've shut down for some renovation of the gardens, but I don't think they've touched the interior. Lady Stanton is a great friend to us, you know."

"But there's no time to organize, to let our donors know, to issue invitations - "

"We need a draw, a person of stature," John Black interrupted. "Someone so important people will drop everything just to socialize with them.  Who do we know who can do that?"

Head shakes and blank looks all around the table. Except for Pippa, who was staring directly at Jordan. Jordan sank down in her chair a little.  Pippa's eyes narrowed, then widened, face code: _say something!_

Soon, the others became aware of the by-play. "Jordan?" Caitlyn inquired. Jordan was quiet, thinking of children broken and starving. But - could she? Pippa's mouth was set. Jordan wanted to be angry with her - the only person she had ever told about her "Cardiff Commuter" and her first and only female friend in London. But she couldn't be angry. The stakes were too high.

"Pippa, what's going on?" Caitlyn asked. 

"Jordan knows someone," she said.

"Speak up, Jordan," John Black ordered her, impatiently. "Who do you know?"

Jordan lifted her head, accepting the inevitable.  "Benedict Cumberbatch," she said quietly. 

**~~~~**

Across London, the lithe figure of the A-list actor lay sprawled face-down across his mattress.  His right arm held one of the king-sized pillows to his side in lieu of a body pillow.  The other pillow was on the floor where he'd pushed it in one of his dreams, and a thin line of saliva ran from the corner of his open mouth to the one-thousand thread-count sheet as he snored gently. The top sheet half-covered him in a tangle around his legs.

Benedict Cumberbatch was not in the habit of sleeping in.  But the audio book recording hadn't wrapped up until three a.m., and he'd stumbled in his front door at four, exhausted from promoting a film in America, doing a chat show on his return and going directly to the studio for the recording. He'd leaned back against the door for a moment, marshaling the energy to make the trek to his bedroom. _You're getting too old for this, Benedict_. Then he'd  fallen asleep standing up.

Finally crawling into bed, he'd switched his phone to vibrate and dropped it into the night table drawer, determined to sleep for a full eight hours. His last thoughts as he sank into mental oblivion were that he had three whole glorious days off and he could spend them speaking to no one, catching up on saved T.V. shows, reading a good book and falling asleep intermittently in his chair as he did. 

Of course, it never worked out that way. Not for three days.  There were friends he longed to see and treks through the countryside he loved to make. But he didn't think of those things now. Now, he thought of plates of chocolate biscuits and warm drinks and sleeping and sleeping and ...

BZZZZRP! BZZZZRP! The drawer was vibrating. Benedict opened one baleful, if rather bloodshot, green eye. BZZZZRP! He fumbled for the drawer pull to grab his phone and turn it completely off.  He didn't care who it was. Everything could wait. Except ... it might be one of his parents. He stared blearily at the face of the phone to check the caller.  Jordan Banks.

Benedict frowned and came more awake. _She's never called me. Ever._ The time on the phone was 10:30 a.m. _Something's happened._ He slid the screen.

"Jordan?" he asked. The familiar voice came back, hesitant and apologetic.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Ben. Do you have a minute?"  Benedict liked Jordan's voice, for all that she was American. The lilting soprano, sometimes acerbic, sometimes amused, lacked the often hard-edged brutality of pronunciation that always grated on a British ear.

"Yes, of course," he answered, rolling onto his back and putting the pillow behind his head. "Is something wrong?"

"Have you seen the news, this morning?" 

He grabbed the remote to switch on the screen usually hidden behind a sliding panel opposite his bed. Pictures of the tsunami appeared, accompanied by the steady drone of disaster commentary on CNN. "I'm watching it now. The tsunami."

"Yes," she said. "Ben. I'm in the office of my CEO with my boss. You aren't on speaker but they can hear me. I'm so, so sorry to presume on our friendship, but ... here's the thing ..."  

As she explained, Benedict quietly took his other mobile from the night table drawer. The gray one that only sent encrypted texts and only displayed decrypted ones. He murmured an occasional "uh-huh" and "I see" into the Jordan's ear while asking his contact for instructions. The word came back: _Civil war is not in British interests_. But having a connection to parties trusted by and acceptable to the local governments, was.  Mercy Fund needed to be kept in both countries.  He read through the last of his instructions and switched the encrypted phone off. 

"Jordan? ... Jordan!" he broke through the monologue.

"Yes. Sorry." she answered.

"You had me at 'thousands of injured and homeless children,' okay?" Benedict told her. "I think you've badly overestimated what people will pay to have dinner with me, but - of course I'll be there. Good job I have the day free.  Just let me know the details."

There was a bit of silence and when she came back, he could tell she was fighting back tears. "I - thank you, thank you so very much. I'll text you when we have things nailed down. All we know right now is it will be at the Garden Museum."

After they rang off, Benedict threw the phone into the drawer and shut it, The assignment was so simple it was hardly an assignment. Show up, be a charming celebrity host. Others would take care of assuring one or two of the guests were the kind of super-philanthropists who would see to it Mercy Fund achieved it's goal.

The British taxpayers were about to generously save the lives of many children. It was almost too bad they'd never know a thing about it.  And in a few months, if Benedict suggested an acquaintance who might, perhaps, do an internship in Gonda with Mercy Fund's local operation, well, of course they'd be happy to accommodate. He untangled the sheet from his legs and pulled it up over his head to shut out the light, hoping for at least another hour's sleep.

He got two. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

 

> "The Garden Museum occupies what was once the ancient church St. Mary-at-Lambeth, which would have been demolished had not  Rosemary Nicholson visited the site in 1976 to see the tomb of John Tradescant, probably the Elder, though his son is buried here as well. He was an early 17th century English naturalist, gardener, collector and traveler. Nicholson was shocked to discover the church boarded-up for demolition and established the Tradescant Trust, which rescued and repaired the church structure in one of the great architectural conservation causes of its time, converting it into the world’s first Museum of Garden History."

The docent, who Jordan thought was named Pamela (or perhaps Phillipa?) finished the set speech proudly.  At which point, she and every other employee of the Museum left the premises. This was to be a _most_ private party.

As Jordan wandered about the beautiful open space that had previously been the nave and sanctuary, she certainly could understand the pride in the docent's voice.  Across the room, Pippa was a whirlwind of flame-topped efficiency as she supervised the caterers, placement of tables and flowers and many, many candles at one end, and setting up a platform for a string quartet at the other. The area between was reserved for dancing.  This was a party for the elitist of the elite, the uber-rich, philanthropically-minded and, Mercy Fund hoped, thoroughly Cumberbatched. 

Jordan had little to do until Benedict arrived.  She was excited to see him again.  It had been almost six months since they'd met and become suspects in a murder at Rhiwbina Twmpath. Her last view of him had been after he dropped her at home and driven off into the foggy London night.  No matter what they'd been through together, she was still a fangirl at heart, and the idea of seeing him in person again, made her heart race. So she busied herself checking out the venue, to keep her mind off him.

She opened a few doors, found closets and stairwells.  One rather ornate door, which still carried two heavy iron brackets a beam could be slid through to lock someone inside - _a cell in a church?_   -  led to a large room with a mirror and couch with a beautifully embroidered fabric screen at the end.  She realized it was the bride's dressing room.  The Museum hosted rather a lot of weddings. 

The end of the wall Jordan had originally thought just had a screen against it, was actually open behind the screen to the short arm of what she realized now was an L-shaped room. The short arm held a bathroom with shower and closet as well as dressing area.  The perfect place to leave her purse, she decided, putting it on a shelf in the empty closet. _And for Ben to change clothes_. At that moment, the voices in the main room increased in volume and excitement. Jordan knew what that meant.

She pulled the door shut as she left. A few steps took her back to the main room.  And there he was.  Working his way across the room.  Being generously friendly to everyone who approached him.  He stopped for several minutes to chat with the CEO John Black, who looked around in response to a question, and pointed out  Jordan standing near a marble pillar near a staircase.

Ben excused himself and came striding gracefully toward her, a big crooked grin on his face and a garment bag slung over his shoulder.  He was in blue jeans and denim shirt under his trademark black leather jacket, so she assumed the bag held his evening clothes.  Jordan tried very hard to maintain some semblance of professionalism, but she felt her own face split into a huge smile and suddenly the lovely, lithe figure of the movie star, impossibly better-looking in person than in his pictures,  morphed into her friend Ben, whom she missed so much.  He gave her a quick one-armed hug and a peck on the cheek. _Damn, he always smells so good!_   She told her fangirl self to hush and kissed him back. On the cheek. Quickly.

"You look wonderful," were the first words he said.

"Thanks," she replied. "I emptied my savings to buy this dress for tonight." 

He stopped and gave her tea-length silk frock the once-over. It was a simple print of impressionistic wild roses on a cream-colored background, the neckline not too low, the skirt cut on the bias, full but not foofy.

"Absolutely worth it," he said. He looked around at Pippa. "I take it the ginger tornado is the new friend you mentioned?"

When Jordan met Ben, one of the things she realized during their "adventure," was that she'd been so busy since coming to London, she'd taken no time to simply make friends. Pippa Collins had been hired a few weeks later to manage their events and the two women had taken to each other immediately.  Possibly bonded by discovering their mutual appreciation of Benedict Cumberbatch and custard tarts.  They'd gone to see his latest film, sneaking a rather large quantity of the tarts into the  theater in their purses, and declared it the best girls' night out, ever.

One night, after a few months of shared stories and increasing trust,  and the consumption of a full bottle of wine between them, Jordan had finally told Pippa about meeting Ben. Pippa listened with rapt attention, but said nothing when Jordan was done talking.

"You don't believe me," Jordan observed.

Pippa looked a bit confused. "My problem is, I do, I'm so sure you aren't some mad liar.  But my head doesn't want to believe my heart because it just seems so, well, impossible!"  They were both quiet for a few moments. Then Pippa laughed until her red curls vibrated, lifting a glass with the last of the wine in a toast to Jordan.  "Oh well, the hell with my head!" She downed the wine and said, "Now, tell me every single thing about him.  I've heard he smells heavenly!" 

Pippa never asked Jordan for any proof of her claims or even hinted at a moment of doubt again.  Then, one morning, Jordan got a text as they breakfasted in a café before work and exclaimed, "Oh!  Ben says he's going to be a last minute guest on This Morning!" 

"When?" Pippa asked.

"Now!" Jordan said, looking up at the wall-mounted television. 

Pippa gave her strange look. "Jordan, they just announced today's guests, I heard them. He's not on it."

Jordan glanced back at the screen, and turned her chair slightly to see the TV better. "Oh, he will be," Jordan said confidently.

Pippa shook her head. But before she could say another word, the host announced the scheduled guest's plane had been grounded in Lisbon due to weather and that Benedict would be taking her place. Pippa turned her astounded gaze to Jordan. "Oh my god, it's all true, then?"

Jordan nodded kindly and gave Pippa's hand a brief squeeze. She couldn't be mad at her friend. After all, she hardly believed it herself, and she'd been there. 

Now, Benedict was watching Pippa directing the delivery and placement of flower arrangements.  "Yes," Jordan answered, "That's her.  She's the Events Manager for Mercy Fund."

He looked interested. _In Pippa?_  Jordan wondered. "Would you introduce us?" Ben asked.

"Of course, she'll be thrilled," Jordan answered and waved Pippa over. Pippa arrived in a shimmer of teal satin,  luxurious red curls, and saucer-huge green eyes. She glanced at Benedict and a flush crawled up her alabaster skin. "Hello," she said to him. Looking at Jordon and back to Ben, "Can I  help?" Jordan so admired Pippa keeping her cool, as she knew the depth of her fangirldom.  She been inside Pippa's bedroom and couldn't tell the color of the walls, so completely were they covered with pictures of Benedict Cumberbatch and all the characters he'd played.

Benedict waited for Jordan to make introductions and then watched him work his magic, putting Pippa at ease, asking about her work.  He was doing for her what he'd once done for Jordan, making himself a real person to her, instead of a public image, making her feel she was interesting and valuable. He asked many questions about the situation in Africa and it was obvious from his comments, he'd done some homework, himself.

"I didn't see much security outside, " remarked.

"Oh, there will be, they're probably setting up now, but very discretely," Pippa answered. "We don't need much in the way of venue security because the event is  - well - not secret, exactly, but unpublicized and unique. And, donors at this level, bring their own security. I'm a bit surprised you didn't." 

Ben smiled and Jordan recognized it as the smile that didn't reach his eyes. The one that meant he was hiding something. "Well," he told her, "As you say, it's a one-off thing and quite private." He looked about. "Is there somewhere I can change?"  

Jordan stepped in.  "I'll take you," she said.

He followed her away after telling Pippa how lovely it was to meet her and letting Jordan take a picture of them together against a blank stone wall with Jordan's phone. "I'd prefer a few days pass before that ends up on Twitter," he said quietly as she led him past the stairway toward the changing room she'd found before he arrived.

"Pippa is actually quite able to keep a secret.  I told her about us months ago and she's never said a word to anyone," Jordan responded, a little defensive of her friend.

"Until she made sure your whole team knew, this morning?" he asked, one eyebrow arched.

Jordan blushed. But wouldn't concede the point. "Yes. But she never said your name, herself, and if I hadn't, she wouldn't have."

She found the ornate door, and he reached past her and opened it for her. She flipped a light switch next to the door.  "Jordan, you're a loyal friend. You have been to me. But she put you in an untenable position and yes, before you interrupt me, I know there was very strong motivation," he said. "I'm simply saying, you're the one I trust. It's why I asked you to take the picture."

Benedict moved behind the screen, still talking.  "This is rather nice, the brides must get their hair and make-up done here.  Great lighting around the mirror."  Jordan smiled.  Only an actor could make that statement and not have it sound oddly effeminate. "So, tell me again," he went on, "How much money do we have squeeze out of these benefactors, tonight?"

Jordan started to answer when she saw his shirt suddenly slung over the top of the screen and realized he was changing his clothes while talking to her. A few feet away. Just behind the screen's thin wall of fabric.  She looked down, as if giving his shirt it's privacy, and noticed the screen didn't reach all the way to the floor and she could see he'd kicked off his sneakers. She heard a brief zip sound and saw his feet step out of his jeans. _Holy fuck, is he kidding?_   She turned her back on the screen telling her imagination to go back to sleep and heard the jeans join the shirt on top of the screen.

_He's an actor, he dresses and undresses in front of all kinds of people all the time, he doesn't realize how, how ..._

"Jordan? Are you there?" he called out.

"Yes!  Yes, just thinking." she cleared her throat, "Well, we really need the whole ten million. Pippa is setting up for forty people, but only about half of those are donors. The others will be their plus-ones."

She heard the extended zipping of the garment bag being opened. "So," he said, "That means at least a half million from each donor. On average."  She heard water running, the sound of hands rubbing together - _lathering?_ Jordan tried to concentrate on the money question and quell the pictures in her mind of Benedict Cumberbatch's fine long-fingered hands running lather all over his ...  

"Ben, I think I should check in with Pippa, I'll see you out there," she moved quickly to the door. "I'll lock this knob behind myself."

 **~~~~**  

 **Behind the screen,** Benedict was drying his hands and grinning at himself in the mirror as he heard the door close quite firmly behind her. _You shouldn't tease her like that, Benedict_ , his conscience scolded.  He liked Jordan. He'd  liked her as soon as he'd met her, in messed-up hair stumbling bleary-eyed to her front door out of a sound sleep. You couldn't call the encounter on the train a meeting, they hadn't even exchanged names, though it was obvious she knew his. Jordan kept her own counsel. She was smart and brave and not shy about calling him out.

And she had been a friend to him.  He'd never seen a hint of their acquaintance online or anywhere else until today. And he was sure that had not been her idea. He liked her. But he needed her out of the room and it was always better if people thought these ideas came from themselves. So he'd pitted a close encounter with a naked celebrity against her essentially conservative nature and she'd decided on her own to leave and lock the door. 

Benedict came out from behind the screen and crossed swiftly to the door, making sure it was locked. There was also a flimsy chain lock, presumably to keep the bridegroom from walking in on the bride but still give the bridesmaids a way to identify those who knocked. Benedict latched it. It wouldn't keep out anyone truly determined to enter, but would give him a few extra seconds if someone unlocked the door.  

Back behind the screen, he unstrapped the calf holster that held the Walther PPKS flat inside his lower left leg a few inches above the ankle. He stared at it for a moment, weighing the risks of wearing it. Accidentally exposing the gun would be a very difficult situation for him, but not having it at hand if he needed it ... that could be a deadly situation for more people than himself.  But this evening was unpublicized and his role as celebrity major donor bait was innocuous enough.

The ceiling had been lowered in the dressing area to make room for modern wiring and lighting. He lifted himself onto the sink, and pushed up the corner ceiling tile, slipping the Walther onto the ceiling brace.  He dropped the tile back into place.  Back on the floor, he scrutinizing the corner, and found no sign of disturbance. He was required to bring the gun whenever on an assignment, but there were no specific requirements beyond having ready access. 

He dressed in a black three-piece, Spencer Hart suit he'd just had delivered for the Hollywood Film Awards next month.  As he unlocked the door to go charm the guests he could hear arriving, he thought the only possible use he could get from the 9mm semi-automatic that night, would be to hold up the wealthy for more money. 

He was very, very wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

The evening was a revelation for Jordan. She never dreamed they could raise ten million pounds in four hours.  She never dreamed she'd see this side of Benedict Cumberbatch.  Or that there was such a side to him.

She needed to stay close to him throughout the night. When he'd gotten the commitment from the donor, he'd signal subtly to Jordan whose job it was to show up with a Mercy Fund iPad and take care of transferring the unusually large donations to the Mercy Fund, International account.  MFI's banker was on stand-by.  No time could be wasted making this money liquid so it could be used immediately to feed, clothe, house and give medical care to the thousands of victims of the tsunami. 

After the second donor, Ben hadn't had to signal at all, she knew simply by his body language it was time for her to quietly appear.  She'd learned this quickly because Jordan couldn't take her eyes off Benedict. He was ... so far above sophisticated, urbane, charming, totally in his comfort zone chatting up the uber-rich, men (and a few women) who made thousands of pounds an hour ... she could think of no adjective to describe him.

She wanted to learn how he did what he did.  Like treating the potential donors with complete respect and deference without even a breath of obsequiousness.  Or knowing exactly when to listen quietly with laser-like attention and when to "take the stage" and entertain them.  He knew just how much of the tragedy and the political complications to tell each one.  Just which button to push: compassion or politics, to get them nodding in agreement with him.

He danced with wives and mistresses, with humor and charm but without evincing the least sexual interest in them or in any way encouraging them to be interested in him.  In fact, she wished she could master his technique for seeming flattered by their words while making it perfectly clear he was not available. It would come in handy for herself and Pippa at more than a few of these events. And local pubs.

And once he got the commitment, once they had signaled to an assistant or even taken out a checkbook in one case,  Benedict managed to gracefully transfer their attention to her and move on to the next target. Somehow, they never acted as if they felt abandoned. In the end, she realized what was most impressive about him was how utterly at ease he seemed amidst some of the most powerful people in the country. Probably in the world.

Each donor was attended by at least one assistant of some kind. The assistants stood around the edges of the room, stolid and solemn men, and two women, watching the space around their employers.  Jordan thought they _looked_ armed, whether they were or not.

But Benedict acted as if he were at any film industry dinner, chatting up people he either knew or at least, shared many interests with. And it finally struck her with a great shock, that the real Alpha male in that room wasn't one of the billionaires, it was him. Whicj brought Jordan to another realization: _oh, shit ..._

"Jordan!" John Black hissed in her ear, the Mercy Fund CEO interrupting her thoughts.

She jumped and almost dropped her iPad. "Yes?  Sorry."

He stood with her for a moment watching Benedict. "Rather amazing, isn't he?  We reached our goal thirty minutes ago.  Perhaps you should let him know."

"I don't have to," Jordan said. "He told me."

Black seemed very surprised. "He told you?"

Inexplicably, Jordan felt a secret pride in Benedict, as if she were his - sister. "He's kept a running total in his head all night, as well as a list of those he hadn't spoken to and how much he needed to get from each. He knew exactly when he was done."

"Well, why is he still here, then?" John asked.

"He's Benedict," she shrugged. "He'll stay until the last dog dies." 

Black looked slightly revolted at her mention of dying dogs. "Another impenetrable Amercanism?" he asked.

"It's from poker. It just means to stay at the table as long as there's a sheep to be fleeced."  He blinked at her and Jordan silently castigated herself for slipping into American-casual. "Sorry. He wants to keep them as friends for us, give them their money's worth. "

Her boss looked at her as if he'd never seen her before. "I see. He must be a very good friend of yours."

 _What?_  Jordan was startled to realize he thought Ben was her boyfriend or something. _Have to nip this in the bud._ "No, Sir," she said emphatically. "We met casually on the Cardiff commuter and we're text buddies, that's all.  Who Benedict is a good friend to, is people in need. He's a just a really good guy."  

Black studied her for a moment longer, as if he knew something she didn't. Then he turned back to the crowd, which was starting to thin. A man in his sixties with a full head of thick white hair in horn-rimmed glasses slipped out the door, without escort or assistant.   

Pippa joined them. "That was the Duke of Rossburgh," she said quietly. "I can't believe he came.  I sent his staff an email, kind of a desperate hope invitation, he's such a recluse."  She turns to John Black. "Do you know him?"

Black shook his head. "No, and I don't know anyone who does. But you never know what will touch someone's heart." 

"I'm glad something touched him, he put us over the top," Jordan said.

"Really?" Pippa asked. "Was he that generous or just the last one Benedict spoke to?"

"He was second-to-last and that generous," Jordan said. "He gave us two point five million pounds."  Pippa's eyes grew wide and round. "Then Eleanor Gable gave us three-hundred and we were at ten point six," Jordan added.

Pippa giggled. "Huh - a paltry sum. We hardly needed her!"

"We need every pound," John Black said seriously. "You two pulled off a miracle tonight.  People will live because of you," he said.  The two women rarely heard compliments from their CEO, but both knew the real life-savers were the ones in the bespoke suits and glittering gowns and a skinny Englishman who just happened to be one of their country's great actors. The greatest, as far as the two women were concerned.

"We just rented the hall, boss," Jordan says.

"I'll be at the office after I finish thanking everyone.  I'll be there most of the night, if you need anything," he said.  Hand your iPad off to Caitlyn, she'll join me.  I'm sure you two can handle things here." 

One of the orchestra members waved to Pippa who excused herself.  Black turned to Jordan, "In the back is a dressing area. You found it, I presume?" She nods. "I left the venue keys in there, on a shelf in a cupboard by the shower.  We're to lock up and leave everything.  There's a key drop box outside.  Staff here will clean up in the morning."

"Yes, Sir, I'll take care of it," she assured him.

He checked his watch. "Oh, and Jordan, see if you can find something we might do for Mr. Cumberbatch by way of thanks."

"He won't want thanks."

He nods. "Yes, he does seem to be a gentleman.  Still - " And with that he left her to work his way through the remaining uber-rich, offering his so-Britishly-understated appreciation.  A few minutes later, the event was over.  Like geese that suddenly rise up from the surface of a pond at a mysterious signal known only to other geese and fly south for the winter, the guests all flocked to the exit.

Jordan found the dressing room.  She pushed open the ornate door, leaving it ajar for Benedict, the light from the outside enough illumination for her. She didn't want to attract any attention as she had one intent: to sink onto the nearest couch and rip the torturous shoes from her aching feet. A plan she did not hesitate for one second to put into action.

She groaned with relief as she wriggled blood back into her crushed toes. Then sat cross-legged on the couch, massaging them. She thought she must look pretty silly in her too-expensive dress with her feet in her hands and was glad the semi-darkness hid her.

 _I'm so effin exhausted_ , she thought, her head dropping back.  Then wondered at her own weirdness in censoring herself in her thoughts. She leaned back further, one foot slipping to the floor.  It had been a whirlwind of a day, no time to regroup, one problem after another to solve. The event so exciting and so demanding, the stress level always high. She began to drowse a little, had a dream ( _fantasy?_ ) that Benedict came in and flopped down beside her. He'd taken one of her aching feet in his warm hands, massaging her. She could hear his slow breathing deepen as she moaned with pleasure and ...

And the realization she'd had watching Benedict working the room that night came back to her.  The thought she'd not had time to examine because  John Black had derailed her train of thought. But, now, alone in the semi-darkness, the thought came back - and the sound of his breathing was so real to her, her eyes opened.

Benedict sat at the end of the couch, half turned toward her, one arm stretched out along the back, his fingers inches from her hair.  His other hand on the seat cushion near her foot. In the dim light, she couldn't make out the exact expression on his face, but she could hear the smile in his deep warm voice.

"Hello."

_Hello. How the hell does he manage to make one word into a sonnet? _

Disoriented, Jordan wondered why it was so dark when it hit her: he'd come in and sat a down next to her, but hadn't bothered to find the light switch.  Benedict Cumberbatch had been watching her sleep.

**~~~~**

Ben breathed a deep sigh of relief as he smiled the last of the uber-donors into his limousine.  Inside, he could see Pippa speaking to the musicians who were packing up.  He moved down the walk and re-entered the museum through a smaller door that opened near the great staircase.  In two steps, he was behind the staircase and in two more around a corner and out of sight of the young man with the viola who'd been eyeing him all evening.  Ben  was fried from being Benedict Cumberbatch for so many hours with no respite and such high stakes.  He couldn't face another fan.  Especially one whose sexual intent was so obvious.  _Enough_.

His only goal was the dressing room, his street clothes and the solace of his armchair by the fire.  His eyes narrowed as he approached the ornate door and saw it was standing open a few inches.  His first thought was that he wasn't armed.  He looked around.  No one in sight.  He flattened himself on the wall next to the door and cautiously peeked in.  And smiled.

Jordan Banks lay half-reclining, slumped back on the couch, eyes closed, apparently asleep.  Her shoes off, one leg bent, her ankle disappearing under her other leg, her stocking-clad foot peeking out from the hem of her dress, on the couch. The other leg was stretched out in front, relaxed. Her hands in her lap, her floral-patterned garden-length skirt bunched up a bit, just over her knees. He was roused from his contemplation of her by the approaching voices of the musicians moving toward the smaller door to exit near the parking lot. He slipped into the dressing room before someone glanced down the hall on the way out and saw him.

Not wanting to disturb Jordan, he didn't turn on a light, but lowered himself slowly onto the end of the couch.  Jordan made a charming picture and it crossed his mind it was one he'd like to paint: the shadows and light, the soft sheen of the dress, the smoothness of her skin against the nubby fabric of the sofa. _That is_ , he thought ruefully, _I'd paint it if I ever found time to pick up a brush again_.

While he studied her, he could almost feel her under his palm as he imagined sliding his hand over her knee and up the inside of her thigh and under the hem - _WHAT THE BLOODY HELL, BENEDICT?_   His subconscious shouted at him. _For God's sake, if you have to fantasize about the girl, at least don't do it in her presence._ He closed his eyes for a moment. _I need to get home. Have a drink._

He opened his eyes.  But Jordan wasn't a girl.  She was  a clever, professional, thirty-year-old woman and someplace underneath his subconscious floated the question: _why not?_  He and his longtime girlfriend had finally left their on again/off again relationship in the "off" position.  He was going to be mostly in-country for a few months.  Again, he thought, _why not?_   But before he could answer himself, he found Jordan awake, watching him. She looked as if she thought she were dreaming.

"Hello," he said.  

**~~~~**

Jordan realized his fingers were within an inch of her foot. "I'm sorry, let me give you some room," she apologized and started to pull back and sit up. Quickly he grasped her foot with one warm hand, "No, you're fine," he reassured her, giving her foot a brief squeeze before letting it go.  She laid back against the couch.  This was far too much like her fantasy.  And he looked like he was having a fantasy of his own. ... Wait .... _What?_  

Jordan tore her eyes from his before he somehow divined her thoughts, her gaze falling on the far end of the room shrouded in deep shadows.  _One of the shadows moved_.  Adrenaline spiked through Jordan. "Ben!" she cried out. 

Benedict jumped up and whirled around, putting himself between her and whatever danger threatened. Unable to see past him, she began to get to her feet. Suddenly, Ben was whipped around and shoved toward her. There was a BANG as the door closed and a strange scraping noise she barely registered as Ben's body slammed into her own, knocking her back, full length on the couch, his long, strong body pressing her down in the now total darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

 

In the first moments after Ben fell on her,  Jordan was acutely aware of three things.  How total the darkness was, as if she had been struck blind.   Her own heart pounding in her throat and ears.  And Benedict's warm, rapid breaths on her neck and shoulder.  The meaning of the scraping sound she'd heard after the door slammed came to her: they were locked in. 

She knew this because one of the donors, Lady Grenfell, had been quite involved in the transition of the church to a museum. She'd been open and chatty, so Jordan asked why there'd been what seemed a prison cell where the bride's dressing room was now.  Lady Grenfell, a young forty-five in Valentino, wrists jangling with multiple platinum bracelets, laughed.  "It wasn't a cell, it was a storage room for the beeswax candles, wine and altar breads," she said. "They kept it so tightly closed as a barrier to mice and, well, other furry vermin, I imagine."

She walked Jordan back to the room, while the American database manager kept looking back for Benedict in case she was needed. "You see?" Lady Grenfell reached up for a small, round, wood protrusion Jordan hadn't noticed before, and pulled it sideways. It was attached to a beam of dark wood hidden in a recess in the doorframe. Jordan saw that it would pivot down and fall into the large iron u-brackets, keeping the door firmly closed.

Now lying under Benedict in the total darkness, Jordan realized that the scraping sound had been the wooden beam dropping into the iron brackets. They were trapped. But she at least knew where the light switch was. She started to speak, but found Ben's large, warm hand clamped firmly over her mouth. The adrenaline that shot through her system when she saw the shadow move was beginning to ebb, but all her senses were still heightened. And now what she was aware of, was him.

Him on her. Her lips pressed into the palm of his hand. His cheek against hers, his chest on her breasts, his hard, flat abdomen moving against her belly as he caught his breath.  _Actor breathing_.  One of his thighs between her legs, his other leg off the couch.  She could feel the tension in his body from bracing himself against the floor with one foot.  And she could feel the zipper of his trousers and the fullness behind it pressed into the top of her thigh.

 _Oh for pity's sake, Jordan!  You've been attacked by someone and you're trapped in this room and everyone might have left and ... and you cannot be having these thoughts now!_ But she was having them.  Thoughts of her hands sliding up and finding the curve at the back of his thighs that sloped up and melded into the strong muscles of his -

"Are you all right?" Ben's breathed almost silently, his lips at her ear. She nodded against his hand. _Oh, fuck!_   His warm breath ignited a heat that spread upwards from her groin. No, not a good time. _Think! Stay in the moment!_   She kept very still, waiting for him to decide what would be next. His hand tightened on her mouth, a signal to stay quiet. She nodded again. His hand disappeared. Again, his voice in her ear so quietly it could not be heard even a few feet away. "Don't move." Then she did raise her hand. She squeezed his bicep lightly to say she understood.

And his weight was gone. In the blackness she listened hard to try and imagine what he was doing. But he moved almost silently. She thought he'd reached the far end of the room. She heard a slight rustle of fabric - against the side of the screen? Then ...  another scrape, very faint, she couldn't identify.  A few moments later he was coming back to her, along the opposite wall. A faint click.

Jordan blinked in the sudden overhead light, raising herself up on her elbows, one knee bent in anticipation of getting up. Ben was standing by the light switch gaping at her. She looked down. Apparently when he'd landed on her, he'd slid up her body. The skirt of her dress was now bunched at the tops of her thighs exposing her garter belt and stockings. 

Jordan was one of those women who simply could not wear panty hose.  She'd tried many types, many times.  But even an hour in the things seemed to trigger a raging yeast infection.  For the most part, Jordan wore slacks with knee high nylons, though she preferred blue jeans, athletic socks and tennies.

But for the formal occasions when she was required to wear a dress, she had a selection of garter belts and stockings she ordered online.  She favored long, full skirts so she could move and work without fear of being immodest. But threatening shadows and falling movie stars defeated her this night. Flushing bright red, she practically lept to her feet, smoothing down her skirt.

Benedict had turned away almost instantly, anyhow.  He was examining the doorknob. "Well," he started, and seemed to choke. He coughed and began again in a stronger clearer voice with a more detached tone.  "I don't understand.  The knob moves, so it isn't locked," he rattled the door. "But the door doesn't open."

Jordan went to the screen at the end of the room, putting some distance between them. "No, it's blocked from the outside. I heard the bar slide into place."

He frowned at her. "Bar?" She explained about the room and the door. He examined the heavy door again, shaking the door handle, even kicking at it. There was no way through. He pulled out his cell.  Frowned. "No signal in here." 

He looked back at her. "Will anyone be left?  Staff or security?" He dropped the cell into the pocket of his trousers and reached inside his suit coat, lifting another cell phone, a light gray one, from the inside pocket just enough to check whether it had a signal. 

 "Pippa might have left already, she knew I was supposed to lock up. But ... " Jordan hesitated.

"But?" he asked.

"I just can't believe Pippa would go home without finding me, first.  Checking in." She shrugged. "I'm not positive, but I think the only security at night is external.  You know, a company that does drive-by checks? The museum has an excellent alarm system. I know, I have a key to set it when I lock up." 

He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. "Are you afraid of me?"

 _Huh?_   "No, of course not.  Why would you ask me that?"

"Soon as the light came on you got as far away from me as possible," he answered.

 _A response to being hot, bothered and embarrassed_ , Jordan thought. "The farthest away from you I can get is in the bathroom with the door locked," she answered with some asperity. "The next furthest is in the closet, I suppose, which is where my purse is and the keys to the venue."  She walked back to him. "But now we know a cell doesn't work, so I guess I don't need my purse.  And we're locked in, so the keys are irrelevant. Okay?"

He gave her a quick smile, and looked past her at the screen.  "You know, I really should check the bathroom just to be sure no one's hiding in there," he said. He started toward the screen, and realized Jordan was following. "No, wait here."

She shook her head. "Not a chance. If there is someone back there, I'm behind you. And if whoever locked us in here comes back through this door, I'd rather not be standing in front of it, alone."

"I almost forgot you have a flair for spotting danger," he said and she knew he was referring to their last adventure together. "Come on, then."  

Behind the screen, Jordan discovered a heap of clothes on the floor, Benedict's bluejeans and the  denim shirt she'd last seen draped over the screen when he'd changed into his suit. The pockets of his jeans were turned out.

She cast a curious glance his way, but his eyes were fixed on the bathroom door.  Or rather,  on the four inch vertical strip of darkness between the slightly open door and frame. And in fact, to be completely precise, on the bottom of that strip, where a man's hand lay still and white.

In what seemed like a dream, Jordan watched Ben squat down, reach out one finger and lay it along the wrist. He pushed on the door with the flat of his hand. It didn't move. He pushed hard. The body moved slightly and the opening widened a couple inches. Ben slipped through the opening into the dark bathroom with some difficulty.  A minute later, he eased back through the opening and cocked his head at her.

"Why does every encounter I have with you involve a dead body?" he asked.  

She stared at the hand. For a moment she felt an odd prickly sensation start to spread over her and realized she was going to faint. _No! No, you will not!_   That feeling passed and Jordan Banks realized she was really pissed off.

" _What. The. Fuck!"_ she spit each word out.

Ben's mouth opened in surprise at her outburst. And suddenly he was ... giggling. And so was she.

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

"Oh my my God, Ben," Jordan finally managed to gasp.  "What the hell is _wrong_ with us?" 

He suddenly became very serious. "Demon-possession.  Clearly," he said solemnly.

 _WTF?_   "That's the most ridiculous - " He smiled.  He was screwing with her.  She started to giggle again. And realized instantly what a bad idea that was.

"Don't," she said getting hold of herself. "Do not make me laugh." She frowned. "Not now."

"Respect for the dead?" he asked.

"No," she answered him, realizing how mortifying this evening was about to become. "I mean, we should have that but ... "  Jordan could feel herself turning bright red. 

"What is it?" Ben took a step toward her. She help up her hand and he stopped.  Jordan dropped her head.

"I have to use the bathroom," she said to her feet.

Ben gave her an uncomprehending stare. Then, he got it. And started to laugh. _Shit_.

"Benedict Timothy Carlton Cumberbatch, don't you laugh at me, " she ordered.  He stopped and tried to straighten his face into a suitably sincere look of contrition. But his mouth twitched up at the left corner.  "Go ahead and smirk. But we'll probably be here for a while and I'm not the only who's going to need to use that room." she said.

**~~~~**

Benedict was quite pleased Jordan standing up to him.   When she'd seen the corpse, she'd gone deathly pale and he'd feared she'd faint.  No chance of that now, as she'd slipped back into standard self-possessed mode.  He'd been very relieved when she'd gotten angry instead of collapsing because he very much wanted to avoid holding her upright at that moment.  He didn't want his arms around her, all soft and vulnerable and the scent of her perfume and ... carrying her to the couch ... laying her down with the skirt riding up a little and underneath ... No, he really didn't want to touch her right now, not after his reaction when he'd been flung on top of her.

When Jordan's eyes went wide and she'd cried out his name, Benedict started to turn, expecting to see a stray paparazzi who'd snuck in, somehow.  But he caught a flash of metal, not light, and interpreted that flash as "gun."  He was half-turned, twisted, rising when a shoulder slammed into his side, spinning him back on top of Jordon and everything had gone black.

He felt Jordan start to say something and instinctively clamped a hand across her mouth, needing to listen, to assess the situation.  But it only took him a few seconds to realize there'd be no gunshot, the door had closed and they were probably alone and quite safe.  Perhaps a sneak thief surprised in the act? 

Yet, instead of simply getting up, he'd hesitated, relishing the scent of the woman whose body was beneath his. The feel of her cool skin, her cheek pressed to his own.  The swell of her breasts against his chest. And against his thigh, between her legs he felt ... _oh, damn, damn, damn!_

He had to get up before she felt something he very much didn't intend her to.  Then it occurred to him how still she was. "Are you all right?" he whispered.  Her soft lips moved slightly against his palm as she nodded affirmation. A frisson of electricity moved from his palm straight to his groin. He had to get up now, before his body betrayed him to her.  And get to his gun without her knowing. 

"Don't move," he ordered quietly.  He felt her hand on his arm, telling him she understood.  Her quick response and willingness to trust him gave him the urgent desire to pull her to him and kiss her.  Thoroughly.  Instead, he rose quickly and moved to the screen, trailing the tips of his fingers along the wall for guidance in the dark.  He reminded himself he was a professional actor, used to denying his body's demands.  He went without food to achieve Sherlock's rail thinness.  Without sleep to make his scheduled appearances.  And now, he'd do without seducing this woman who was, after all, a fangirl.

 _It was just the adrenaline, the shared moments of fear and relief, the total darkness_ , he thought. He slipped behind the screen, stepped silently onto the counter, feeling for the right tile in the dark. His body back under the control of his intellect.

**~~~~**

"Ben?" Jordan called to her friend who seemed to be lost in thought. "Is something wrong?"

He came back from the memories. "We're trapped in a room with two-foot thick stone walls and a corpse.  We have no way to call out, the building is closed for outside renovation and no one will miss me for a couple of days.  It's Friday, so maybe no one will miss you, either. ... What could be wrong?"  He smiled. "Oh!  And you have to pee in what is very possibly a crime scene."

"The cleaning crew will be here in the morning, they'll see the doors left open, come looking for the keys and let us out," she announced with some pleasure, rarely knowing anything he didn't. He looked relieved at her mention of the cleaning crew.  "And why jump to the conclusion it's a crime scene?  Maybe it was a heart attack."

"We have to treat it as a crime scene, though, don't we?  Until the authorities make a determination," he said, with a look at the slightly open door. "That means you can't turn on the light and you can't close the door."

Jordan knew he was right.  She'd have to reposition the corpse to get the hand out of the way of the door.  And if someone turned off the light, there could be fingerprints she would disturb.   _Oh crap_.

Benedict gathered his clothes from the floor.  "I'm going to change over by the sofa while you take care of yourself in here.  Let me know when you're finished."   He moved around the end of the screen.

"Wait," Jordan said.  He popped his head back around the screen.  "Is it ... is he bloody or anything?"  

"Not that I saw," he said kindly.  "I just felt for a pulse in his neck and for any breathing.  It's still quite dark in there.  You'll need to - step carefully."  She nodded.  He smiled encouragement and disappeared behind the screen.

After he was gone, she realized how deeply she dreaded trying to negotiate the corpse in the dark to get to the toilet. Her cell phone!  She went to the closet next to the bathroom where she'd left her purse and John Black had left the venue keys.  But when she opened the door, she found her purse upended, the contents scattered on the floor.  Jordan recalled Ben's pants pockets being inside out - as if someone had searched his jeans.

She felt along the top shelf and found the keys.  Had the man on the floor died in the course of a simple theft?  Or possibly surprised someone in the midst of the crime?  Someone who'd still been there when Jordan entered?  Or had they entered after she'd fallen asleep? 

The faint sound of a zipper brought her back to her immediate problem.  She found her cell phone on the floor.  It would provide some illumination in the semi-dark bathroom and, she hoped, let her negotiate her way to the toilet without treading on some part of the corpse.  She had a sudden vision of herself stumbling and falling headlong onto the body and shuddered.  But her full bladder demanded attention and she turned resolutely to the task ahead.

Jordan flipped her screen and touched the "flashlight" icon on her iPhone.  She slipped her arm through the gap between the door and frame and peered in.  The body was facing away from her.  The man's head was to her right, his arm behind him, the hand through the door.  She could see how Ben would have been able to put one foot into a triangle formed by the man's arm, side and the door, and lifted his other foot over the man's back to place on the floor in front of his chest.  Then he must have leaned down and checked his vital signs.

But Jordan needed to be facing in the opposite direction to find her way to the left, behind the door where the toilet was.  She put her right foot in the triangle and squeezed her way in. Holding the doorframe with her left hand for support, the cell in her right, she brought her left foot inside and placed it next to her right. 

She realized Benedict couldn't have done this. His big, very long feet wouldn't have fit in the space.  Feeling more confident, inside the room, with some light and the face of the corpse behind her, Jordan easily stepped between the man's legs, and reached the toilet.  She kept her eyes down as she lifted her skirt and took care of her needs. Only one foot and ankle were in view.

When she finished, with great relief, (giggling a little at the accidental pun) she looked around for the paper and something on the floor gleamed dully in the light: a gray cell phone lay facedown, in the corner. _Why does it look so familiar?_  She thought of picking it up and realized it was possibly evidence. _But maybe we can call out on it._ That thought led to the memory of where she'd seen a cell phone like that, before. Ben had checked that mobile in his pocket for signal strength. Also gray.

Must be coincidence. Gray was an unusual color for a cell phone, though. Maybe the same brand?  Something British? 

Jordan had to steel herself somewhat for the journey to the door.  She knew she'd likely get an unwanted glimpse of the man's face.  For some reason, this bothered her far more than his body.  It made him real, a person.  She kept her eyes averted as much as she could, but did note he was wearing what seemed a very expensive tux.  _A donor?_   Without thinking, she turned her cell flashlight on his face. White hair. Horn-rimmed glasses.

It was the Duke of Rossburgh. 


End file.
